


you'll find me buried

by Wheat From Chaff (wheatfromchaff)



Category: Borderlands (Video Games)
Genre: Dubious Consent, Fight Club - Freeform, Hate Sex, Light BDSM, M/M, Violence, don't fucking look at my boner when we fight
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-03-01
Updated: 2017-03-01
Packaged: 2018-09-27 03:32:48
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,581
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9951275
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/wheatfromchaff/pseuds/Wheat%20From%20Chaff
Summary: It's not every day you face yourself in the ring.





	

**Author's Note:**

  * For [sealdog](https://archiveofourown.org/users/sealdog/gifts), [ThirtySixSaveFiles](https://archiveofourown.org/users/ThirtySixSaveFiles/gifts).



> Based on [this tumblr post](http://ssealdog.tumblr.com/post/157517764737/i-see-ur-tags-but-honestly-my-preferred-jack-is) about Hyperion's underground fight club, and partially inspired by a tumblr post about Jack's teen years on Tantalus which I can't find it anymore. Sorry, OP. You made a good post.
> 
> i haven't seen fight club in 15 years.

Hyperion didn't hire saints. Given all the shit the employees got up to, a fight club was probably inevitable. It’s something unique to humans, or so humans like to think. Get enough people in one place and eventually one of them will throw a punch. Not necessarily out of anger, but just because. Just because they didn’t like the look on your face. Just because you were there. Just because their friend dared them. Just because someone cheered you on. Someone will always cheer. And maybe that’s the first piece of positive reinforcement you’ve gotten since you arrived on Helios, in a company where no good deed goes unpunished, and the only people you can trust live behind your eyes. So maybe you just keep punching, cause people will keep cheering. 

It’s what humans do. When we finally crawled from our primordial pools and into the upright world of civilized society, we brought violence with us. It’s in our veins, written into our genetics. We can talk a big game about overcoming hate, about our higher calling, about the pipe dream of universal peace, but it’s all garbage. Cause none of us’d be here if we weren’t fighters. Violence is as much a tool of civilization as the first hammer. Where do you think the inspiration came from?

It’s not surprising at all that Jack would get involved. Really, the surprise is that he didn't start it. He came to it later, about a year after he started at Hyperion and crawled his way out of the crab bucket programmers pool. Somebody whose name he’d forgotten after a week had slipped him a note, which was quaint enough to get Jack’s attention. Someone who must’ve admired the line of his broad shoulders, the way his arms looked with his sleeves rolled up, the way his jeans hugged his calves and thighs. Naturally. Who wouldn’t?

It only took one visit before Jack became addicted. Hyperion challenged him in a lot of different ways, forced him to be careful, forced him to think strategically. Hyperion was a game and everyone had their eyes on the prize and Jack found himself tested for the first time in a long time. Jack had gotten too used to easy targets in school. He’d gotten used to being the smartest in the room. That wasn’t always the case at Hyperion.

And that was fun, but he missed this. He didn’t think he would ever miss a single thing about Tantalus except for the way it’d looked from space, behind the scratched safety glass of his escape freighter. But god help him, he missed nights spent in shitty bars where his good looks got him into trouble. He missed the tingle under his skin in those few seconds when someone tried to stare him down. He missed the feeling of flesh pulverized under his fists.

He got a real kick out of the Hyperion version of those experiences. All those corporate sharks with their pinstripe suits, their shiny shoes, gleaming tie pins. Pencil skirts, stiletto heels, winged eyeliner. All of them who glide through the hallways with slick hair and sharp smiles, making plans for a friendly rematch on the racquet court, for lunch, making small talk _how’s the wife, how’s the husband, is your sister in remission, gosh she’s grown like a weed_ and all the while with knives hidden behind their backs. To see those serpents shed their skins, come out bare and rough and ready, _spoiling_ for it. Begging for it. How could Jack resist? He obliged every time.

He was good in the ring. Better than most. Hyperion’s finest might be able to end a life with a stroke of a stylus, but that didn’t mean much in here. You might be king shit of fuck off mountain, but once you step out from behind your desk, pull your shirt off, and everyone else steps back, gives you space, spreading out until you’re left alone in a widening circle, none of it matters. You could make seven figures, you could have a corner office, you could have two assistants, and a body count in the triple digits, but once you were there, you were no better than the lowly accountant with three roommates and a steady diet of microwave lasagne for one.

There weren’t many rules, but that was the most important one: In here, you left everything behind. True equality at last.

And you took your beatings when they were given, and Jack gave more than he received. It was satisfying as hell when he was a lowly programmer, facing off against the same people who tried to give him their coffee orders and take credit for his work. It felt better than sex to grab his direct supervisor by the hair and cave his nose in with a fist.

But nothing good can last in this armpit universe. And when Jack won the game of snakes and ladders at last, took the throne, and rechristened himself as Handsome Jack, things changed for him. Because the first visit after he put his boot down on the top rung of the ladder, nobody looked at him the same. He could feel it as soon as he stepped foot into the ring, that tweak in the atmosphere that told him that people were breaking the rules. He was Jack still, but no one would see him like that. Even if he took everything off, left himself shirtless and bare, the mask stayed. And that was enough. Nobody wanted to take on the king.

Jack still tried, but his opponents grew weak. Their hearts weren’t in it. They looked at him with terror if they landed a punch, like he might yank them to the nearest airlock then and there. A few people even apologized. Those people _did_ get airlocked.

So, Jack had no choice but to cut back. He still came out, but now he took a place of honor in the audience. People fought for him instead of against him, and the feeling he got when the winner might glance in his direction, nervous and bloodied and looking for his approval… it felt good. No doubt. But it wasn’t the same.

It wasn’t _enough_.

* * *

There’s an instinct you can develop for this sort of thing. Few people are born with it. Most learn the hard way. Knowing when a good night is about to become a better night. When the person at the pool table keeps looking your way. When you smile at the wrong person. When somebody grips their bottle by its neck. Jack could feel it like a sailor reading the wind. It’ll keep you alive, this ability to know when things are about to kick off.

Jack didn’t often feel it in the fight club, which was a little surprising. The whole point of the exercise was to beat the shit out of someone. To fight until you can’t stand, or until the other person yields. But it’s different in this place, in the engine room where Helios’ guts grumble and groan. There’s nothing personal about what they do here. They’d fight their boss as soon as they’d fight their sister. There’s a purity to that kind of sentiment that Jack can respect. It’s why he still comes, even when it doesn’t apply to him.

It’s why he came tonight, after finishing up a frustrating day of dealing with other people’s fuck ups. No one told him being the boss meant babysitting grown adults to do their goddamn jobs. He had to play the big bad wolf, huffing and puffing and blowing their houses down. Threatening families, threatening livelihoods, their wellbeing and their kneecaps. It used to make him feel powerful, but something had gone out of it. Jack never felt satisfied for long. It didn’t feel good anymore. It wasn’t enough.

It was like making a wish on a cursed monkey’s paw. He’d gotten everything he wanted, but he still wasn’t satisfied. He was left with an ever-growing itch that he just couldn’t scratch. Playtime with Nisha came close, but she’d made it clear from the start that their power-trade was a one-way street. She did the hitting and he took the hits. He knew it, didn’t mind, but sometimes he needed something else.

He needed something real. He needed real fear. He needed someone to fear _him,_ and not just as their boss, or as the larger-than-life persona he’d carved for himself, but fear him as the person who could kick the shit out of them. That human fear, that primal response to real, immediate threat. Predator and prey. He’d never actually killed anyone in the ring—that was against the rules—but he could see it in their faces, every time, that they were afraid he just might.

Jack’s instincts told him things were different as soon as he stepped out of the elevator and into that wide, dimly lit room. He could feel a strange energy in the air, a restlessness, nervousness. What it must feel like in a henhouse after the fox had slipped inside.

Nobody noticed when Jack stepped into the room. A large crowd obscured the ring, and everyone’s attention was fixed. Jack couldn’t see the fighters, but he could hear them. The repetitive thump of flesh on flesh, a grunt and gurgle, audible even over the baying of the audience. This was better than walking into a sex show. Jack didn’t miss the similarities.

He was late, and they’d been at it for at least an hour. People were cheering, but there was something a little hysterical in the tone. Under it all, Jack could hear them talking in low, concerned voices. He stayed on the fringes and listened.

“…believe it he’s been going this long?”

“…beat at least four people already…”

“…someone should probably tap him out…”

“…be my fucking guest, man.”

“…did you see the Anshins?...”

“…I can’t believe no one’s stopped him yet…”

“…I think we’re going to witness a murder tonight…”

“…I’ll be your alibi if you’ll be mine.”

One fighter? The whole time? There were rules against that sort of thing. Jack was surprised and a little insulted no one had tried to enforce them. Intrigued, he pushed his way to the front of the audience.

And then he understood.

They were scraping the loser off the ground. He was still breathing, but his face looked like tenderized steak, and his arm hung at a funny angle. He’d live. That’s what the Anshins were for.

The winner had turned away, his face bowed into the shadow, Anshin glowing bright red against his arm, gleaming against the silver in his face. He tossed the empty syringe away and pushed his damp hair back.

And Jack realised for the first time that he’d spent too long on the sidelines and now he was starving. He was ravenous. He was a man in a desert, catching sight of an oasis for the first time in years.

The next contender had stepped forward, already stripped down to her sports bra. Jack didn’t even look at her when he put his hand on her shoulder. He didn’t have ears for what she stuttered to him. He didn’t have eyes for the comical look of surprise she gave him, the same look that was spreading out amongst the crowd as people began to notice.

He didn’t care about any of that. The nameless mob became a beige-brown backdrop. The jingle of his fob chain hitting the ground was like the sound of an axe falling and everyone went quiet.

The handsome winner looked up at last. Jack felt a bolt of heat strike down his spine, grounded in his hips, when their eyes met. Not even a flicker of surprise in the other man’s face.

Jack gave him the privilege of his smile as he pulled his sweater over his head. He could feel his heart pounding, his blood pumping. He felt alive again.

It wasn’t every day you faced yourself in the ring.

* * *

His double looked good all the time, but in that light, with other people’s blood on his wrapped knuckles, splattered on his face, his bare chest heaving, he looked _delicious_. And the look on his face when Jack stepped up, a look like lightning across a darkened sky. Jack could read the turn of blood like the changing tide around him. He could see it in his double’s face, in the way his breathing slowed down, the way his eyes glittered. This _was_ personal. You might just witness a murder after all, kiddos.

Jack stripped down to his jeans, and his mask. His perfect mirror image watched him without a change in his expression, the silver clasps of his own mask glinting under the dirty white-yellow light.

There’s no ring bell, no starters’ pistol, nothing official. Jack stepped into the cleared circle, rolling the kinks from his neck. His double followed suit, cracking his knuckles.

Fluff out your ragged fur, show off your sharp teeth, flex your claws. Show ‘em what you’re made of. Jack couldn’t stop grinning. He fell into a fighter’s stance.

In the old days, back when Jack was only himself, he would throw the first punch. Same as he might in any other ring, in any meeting room, over the conference call, Jack always made the first attack. Establish dominance early and let the lesser learn their place. Had his double kept up the tradition? Jack wished he’d come earlier to watch.

His double assumed his own stance, fists up, weight on the balls of his feet.

And he waited.

Jack took a breath. Anticipation was half the fun, and he wanted to savour this moment the way he might savour that first sip of expensive scotch. He wanted to see if his double would flinch, would blink, would try something.

He didn’t. Jack struck first.

He had a right hook that could flatten a train and it’s ended more than one fight before it began. He normally pulled it a little, because it’s no fun if things finished too quickly. He didn’t for his double. And he wasn’t disappointed.

The other Jack dodged the hit, caught Jack by his arm and used the momentum to toss Jack like a ragdoll to the floor. Jack fell on his back, his breath leaving his lungs in a whoosh of air. His other self dashed forward, but Jack recovered quickly and rolled out of the way before he could land a kick on his ribs. Jack got his feet under him just as his double tried to crowd him. He pushed up, forcing his shoulder into his double's chest hard enough to knock him back a few steps. On his feet once more, Jack threw another punch which his double barely managed to dodge. 

His double tried to pull back, arms raised defensively, but Jack wasn't having it. He pushed forward in a boxer's stance, throwing punches. He managed to land a few taps, one on his shoulder and one on his upper arm. He pushed until they were at the edge of the crowd, his double rocking to a stop.

Jack lashed out and grabbed both his arms. His double twisted, falling back a few steps, losing his stance, and Jack held on. During the struggle, he managed a clumsy hit on Jack’s throat, a strike that felt more like a love tap. Jack laughed. His double reared back and slammed his forehead into the bridge of Jack’s nose.

Jack stopped laughing.

His double grabbed him by the shoulders and drove his knee into his abused chest, forcing all the air from Jack’s lungs. Something like a sledge hammer hit Jack between his shoulder blades and Jack fell to his knees. He did it again and Jack swore he heard something crack.

If this were an honorable fight, the opponent would’ve backed off. Let Jack catch his breath. But his double did him proud and kicked him in the ribs, forcing him to the ground, and Jack realised with a giddy thrill that he’d underestimated his double again.

See, violence is easy. Any idiot can fire a gun. It’s why Jack wasn’t too picky about the candidates Autohn had gotten him for the procedure. He’d picked the geeky ginger because he thought it would be hilarious to watch him in a firefight. And he’d been right, as he always was. It’d been hysterical.

Anyone could’ve been Jack’s body double, really. There’s nothing special about a surgery. But what he’d gotten surprised him.

Cause that geeky kid hadn’t died when he should’ve. He didn’t run when he was scared. His first mission landed him in a magma crater and he hadn’t crumbled. He’d turned to diamond.

Jack caught his leg before he could land another hit. He rolled and aimed a kick at the back of his double's knee. The leg folded and his double dropped, and Jack knocked him backwards with another kick to his solar plexus. Jack pinned him quickly, drew his fist back, and slammed it right into his beautiful jaw.

He barely felt his knuckles split. He leaned his knee onto his double’s chest and hit him again. His head bounced against the metal floor, producing a sweet sound Jack would replay for days.

He would remember this. He would remember the snap of cartilage, the way his double’s face collapsed like a building against a wrecking ball under his fist. The taste of blood in the back of his throat, oozing down from his broken nose.

It felt like hours, but it couldn’t have been more than a few seconds. His double wrestled his arm free, caught Jack’s fist on his shoulder. He rocked himself up, swinging his fist into Jack’s temple. It didn't hit hard, restricted as he was by Jack’s pin, but it felt like enough. Jack blinked black stars from his vision and his double broke free.

He aimed another hit at Jack’s temple, this time with his heel of his bare foot. Jack’s head snapped to the side and his double climbed on top of him. He punched Jack again as he tried to rise, aiming his hit with precision and getting the same spot.

Just as Jack struggled to regain his senses, his double grabbed his arm with both hands, leaned his knee on Jack’s shoulder, and yanked with all his strength. Jack screamed as the joint popped and his arm left its socket.

Nobody knew who to cheer for, so they cheered indiscriminately.

Jack jerked upright as best he could, pushing himself up with his good arm, upsetting his double’s balance, and slammed his head backwards. It hurt like hell, and Jack figured he probably only got him in the brow, but his double’s face was a swollen mess and it did the job.

He fell to the side, stunned, catching himself on both arms. The white mask fitted over his face hid most of the damage Jack had given him and that wouldn’t do. He wanted to see it. That pretty face, all swollen and red. At least he could see the blood that poured from his nose, from the rips in the material, that oozed from between his teeth.

He punched his double in the back of the head. He went down, jaw slamming onto the metal floor hard enough to bite through his tongue, if Jack were any judge.

“Stay down.” It’d been a long time since Jack sounded like this. Anyone close enough could hear the blood in his voice.

Anyone could’ve signed up for the body double program. The terms were rigged, but it paid well and the universe was filled with rubes, waiting for their chance to make it big. Jack could’ve gotten anyone.

But he’d gotten something special. He got a champion. A perfect double.

His double groaned. He pushed himself up on shaking arms. Jack felt a swell of pride so strong he nearly choked. He grabbed a handful of his double’s thick hair.

His double grabbed his wrist before he could bounce him off the floor. He launched himself like a bullet from a gun and knocked Jack fully in the chest. They both felt the impact when they hit the ground, Jack spitting up blood. His double gripped him by the neck, his thumb pressing hard into the soft flesh under Jack’s chin.

Jack laughed again, a pained wheeze. “You gonna… strangle me, kiddo?”

He squeezed Jack’s neck. “Shut. Up.”

Being on the other end of this particular fetish was never enjoyable. Jack could feel his chest rattling, his throat tightening. Red-faced, lights winking in his vision, Jack pushed himself up and bit his double’s nose.

This was no love bite. He felt the synthetic skin tear in his mouth. The hands around his neck vanished. He let go before he could take a chunk out, but not before his mouth filled with blood.

His double scrambled back, both hands on his face, his eyes a manic gleam between his fingers. Jack pushed himself onto his feet.

“You fucking psycho!”

“Language,” Jack said and kicked him in the head. His double fell sideways. He struggled on his arm, the only support keeping him upright. Jack circled him.

He could hear the wheezing in his breath. He recognized by the way lights blinked and flickered, the way his head felt like a balloon filled with concrete, that he had a concussion. His shoulder had started to swell to the size of a softball. Bruises had started to bloom in ugly shades across his chest and his back, too, he had no doubt. He touched the fingers of his good hand to his neck.

“Stay down,” Jack said again.

His double spat blood at his feet. Jack kicked him in the ribs.

People had stopped cheering. Jack barely noticed.

His double lay on his side, coughing and drooling blood from his broken face. He put his hand flat on the floor and Jack realised, with a quiet sigh, that this would just keep going. His wonderful, frustrating, stubborn body double would just keep attacking until Jack broke both his arms and legs. He considered it.

But this had gone on long enough. He had other appetites to satisfy now. He knelt down, and lifted his double’s head with his good hand. His double’s eyes had gone glassy, and he couldn’t seem to focus on Jack’s face. Jack pushed a few strands of sweat-damp hair from his forehead.

Word would spread about this little display of tenderness, even mercy, but no one who wasn’t there would believe it.

His double showed his red teeth. Jack smiled. He gripped him by the hair and slammed his head onto the ground. He did it again, and his double fell limp, senseless.

Jack fell onto his back, panting. He stared up at the ceiling and laughed, happier than he’d been in years.

* * *

They offered him an entire basket of Anshins, but he only took one. He didn’t scream when his arm pulled itself back into its socket, but he did punch one of the poor saps who’d gotten too close. One Anshin took the bite out of the worst of his injuries, but it didn’t cure him. He felt like a walking bruise. He felt like a livewire. He felt like a punk kid from the worst parts of Tantalus.

He gave his double one too, but it didn't wake him up. That was fine. Made what Jack had planned next a lot easier.

He didn’t even bother to get dressed. He picked up his trophy, slung him over his shoulders, and padded to the elevator. He walked all the way back to his penthouse in his bare feet, whistling a familiar tune.

He dropped his body double without ceremony onto his king sized bed. The other Jack groaned, but otherwise didn’t wake, which suited Jack fine. He went to the other room for supplies.

He returned minutes later with a med kit. His doppelganger stirred when he sat on the edge of the mattress and tossed the kit to land between them.

“Wakey, wakey, pumpkin pie,” Jack said, as he ambled over to the drink cart. “The next bit goes a lot better if you're awake for it.”

“Fffffuck,” his double slurred. He rubbed his face gingerly, wincing as his fingers found the cuts on his nose. “Youuuu goddamn psssycho. What’veyou… where’m I?”

A chunk of ice dropped into Jack’s glass with a merry clink. “You’re where you belong, princess. I’ve taken you home with me.”

He groaned again. “Fuckssakes…” he muttered. “ _Why_?”

“Watch your tone,” Jack said. Even with his hand covering his face, he could tell his double was rolling his eyes. Little shit, he thought fondly.

He sat on the edge of the mattress, and set his drink on his bedside table.

“Where’s mine?” his double asked without moving his hand.

“Drinks are for winners, other me.” A cheap jab, and Jack didn’t miss the way his double’s jaw trembled just a little. “Anyway, move. I can’t work on you like this.”

“Work on…?” He broke off as Jack grabbed his wrist and pulled his hand away. He didn’t fight, but glared sullenly when Jack took his chin and examined him.

He hummed at the tears in the mask. The synthetic material was supposed to be rip-proof. He’d have to have words with R&D.

His other self wasn’t looking at him. His gaze had slid to the side, focused on something over Jack’s shoulder. He’d affected a bored expression that was almost convincing. If Jack didn’t know that face so well, he might’ve been fooled.

He drew his finger down the straight length of his nose. His double's lips thinned but he kept up his game.

Jack reached for the latches of his mask.

His double came to life, jerking away from his hands. “What are you doing?” he demanded.

“This thing’s trash. You don’t need it here.” He batted his double's hands aside and found the releases under his ears. “Hold still,” he growled when his double turned his head away. “Unless you want another beating.”

“Fuck you.”

“How many times have I gotta tell you about that language of yours?” Jack unlatched the chin and forehead clips. “Anyway, your mask looks dumb with a hole in the nose.”

“Some fucking lunatic bit me.”

Jack gripped his face with both hands, pressing his thumbs hard onto the sides of his eyes. He leaned down, until their faces were close enough that he could taste the blood still on his double's breath. Until he knew his double's vision was filled with only Jack.

His pupils shrank. He went still under Jack’s hands.

“Language,” Jack said, leaning his weight forward. And then he grinned, bloodied teeth on display. “Unless you want another bite.”

His double’s breath whistled through his nose. He stayed still. Jack lightened the press of his fingers. He found the seam of the mask and lifted it away.

His breath caught. And there it was, that rare beauty. That once in a galaxy face. Idiots would tell you that you couldn’t improve on perfection, but as Jack took in his double’s face, with fresh blood still oozing out of the small cuts on his forehead, the scrape on his cheek, the day-old looking bruises, and that vivid red scar, Jack knew they were liars.

He swept his thumb across his double’s cheek, brushing at the shiny red skin under his milk-white eye.

“Healed up good,” he murmured. His double closed his eyes.

“Why am I here?” he asked.

“Because you lost,” Jack said, pulling his hands away with some reluctance. “And those are the rules.”

“What rules?”

“It’s a game for keeps, kitten. Loser submits.”

His double rubbed at his forehead. “Submits…? I don’t know what the f—what the _hell_ you’re talking about, Jack. Just tell me what you want. My head’s splitting.”

Jack unlatched the medkit, popping the lid open. He selected a roll of ace bandages, a package of anti-bacterial wipes, and butterfly adhesives.

“You’re fine,” Jack said. He ran one of the wipes across a nasty scrape on his double’s chest. His other self hissed, flinching at the contact.

“Fuck!”

“And I don’t know how much plainer I can make it for ya,” Jack went on, letting that slide. “It was a game for keeps and you lost. Now I keep you.”

His double had a convincing growl. Jack always enjoyed hearing it.

“I can’t tell you how good it was to see you out there tonight, kiddo. A bit of a surprise, but it was nice. Like finding a pony downstairs on my birthday. Quit squirming and lie back, will you?”

“That sh— _stuff’s_ cold, you know.” He lay back with one arm flung over his face.

“You’ll live.” Jack tossed the spent wipe aside, not looking at where it landed. “Roll over, I wanna do your back next.”

He expected more childish resistance, but his double surprised him and did as he was told. He stiffened when Jack leaned over him, but otherwise he remained still. The skin on his back was mostly unbroken, but there were colourful bruises the size of Jack’s foot and bigger blossoming across the expanse.

“I thought you might’ve been pissed off,” he said as Jack got to work. “When you found me, I mean.”

“Wrong again.”

“Guess so.” His double seemed to relax under him. Jack traced the outline of a particularly nasty-looking bruise just under his right shoulder.

“You make a habit of fighting?” Jack asked.

“I’ve been at the last few,” his double admitted. “It was bad at first, but once I told them I wasn’t the real you, it got better.”

Jack pressed his fingers into the meat of his double’s shoulder, right where the bruise was bluest. His double hissed.

“You should be thanking me,” he said through tight teeth. He turned his head and gave Jack his best grin. “Next time you go, you can just pretend to be me.”

“I’m not pretending to be someone else,” Jack said flatly.

His double laughed. “Yeah. Smart.” He let his head drop back onto his arms with a barely concealed wince. “What the hell are we doing here, Jack?”

Jack ran his hand down his double’s spine, stopping at the dip of his lower back. He spread his fingers out, rubbed his thumb across his double’s side.

His other self went stiff.

“No,” he said.

“I wasn’t asking.” Jack pressed down. He slid his thigh across his double’s back, until he’d straddled him. “You lost, kitten,” he reminded him, running both hands down his sides until he gripped his hips. “What do you think I do to losers?”

“Give them a raise?”

Jack leaned down over his double’s shoulder, just above his bruise. “Guess again.” And bit him.

Round two was a quicker affair. His double put up a fight, twisting and cursing under Jack’s hands, but Jack knew this game. This wasn’t like in the ring. His stallion always bucked and tossed his head at the start, but he always let Jack ride him in the end.

He pushed his double’s face into the pillow, he gathered both his arms behind him and put that ace bandage to use.

The white material would stretch eventually, Jack knew, but it was enough to keep him for the time being. He tied a double knot as tight as he could.

“You always gotta play hard to get, don’tcha, other me? I don’t know why you bother. We both know how this ends.”

His double snarled. Jack laughed and pushed his head down.

“None of that. You lost, sweetheart.” His double tried to buck him off which was just the cutest thing. Jack ground his hips down in response. “Just be graceful and take your lumps.”

“ _Fuck you_.”

Jack jabbed his fingers into a bundle of nerves under his double's armpit. “What did I just say? Hm? What did I just tell you? If you can’t behave yourself, you won’t like the consequences.” He leaned down, pressing the length of his chest against his double’s back, and twisted his hand, stabbing deeper. His double groaned. “Cause I don’t have to play nice with you, kitten.”

“This… This is nice?”

Jack kissed the bite mark he’d left earlier. He moved his hand from his double’s side to the front of his jeans, already knowing what he’d find. He grinned.

“Well, well.” He squeezed at the tenting fabric. His double tried to hide a whimper in the pillow. “What a surprise. Already aching for me, huh, babe?” He pulled the zipper down with some difficulty and palmed at his double’s hardening cock. He scowled at the feeling of cotton briefs under his hand.

“What’d I tell you about going commando?” he asked. His double pushed his face into the pillow and muttered something about chafing. “But the ease of access is priceless. Look at how much time we’ve wasted already,” he said as he ran his thumb across the wet slit of what he knew was a truly impressive dick. He took his double’s cock in a loose grip, running his hand lightly down to the base.

There was nothing in the galaxy that felt quite like this. In all his depraved imaginings, all the scenarios he’d gone over as a hormonal kid looking to fuck anything breathing, he’d never come up with a scenario that would lead him here. Even after the number of times he’d been told to go fuck himself.

Predictably, his double tried to grind into Jack’s hand, but Jack kept his grip loose and his hand light. He amused himself for a while, watching his double try to find relief before he yanked his double’s hips up and pushed him down until he was balancing his weight onto his shoulders. He pulled down the waistband of his jeans to his knees.

“See, you pissed me off before,” Jack said as he pulled his double’s ass tight to the hardness in his own jeans. “You always have to have such a smart mouth, don’t you? You can never just be grateful for the incredible privilege I’m giving you, can you? Do you know many people on this heap would beg me to just spit on them?”

“Kinda, yeah. I’m you, remember?”

Jack gave his ass an open palmed slap. His double yelped. “This is what I’m saying. Smart mouth. Normally I’d flip you ‘round and put it to better use, but as much as I love watching you choke on my cock, I think I’d rather just pound you into the mattress.”

“You’re the one… who talks too much…” his double panted. He flexed his wrists against the white binding. Jack smirked.

He smacked him again and he didn’t miss the way his double’s cock twitched, a fresh bead forming at the head. He hit him a few more times because he liked the way it felt and he loved watching his double squirm and try not to let on how much he liked it.

This was power. Everything outside, everything in the office, trillion dollar deals over games of golf that his opponents always let him win, public executions in front of a thousand grateful idiots, skipping out on meetings, rescheduling for the fourth, fifth, sixth time all because he could, all because no one would ever tell him no, those were games. Except they were all rigged because no one ever played with him properly. He was the schoolyard bully, the one everyone let win because they hoped he would leave them alone.

Leave it to his double to actually give him a challenge he could sink his teeth into. He did then, biting down hard on the tender red flesh of one abused cheek. His double cried out.

Jack reached over to the bedside table, took a quick swig of his drink, and opened the drawer where he kept his supplies.

His double stayed right as he left him, his reddening ass high in the air. Jack gripped one of his cheeks and squeezed.

“God, I wish I had a camera right now. You look so fucking good. So patient and obedient for me.” He slipped one slick finger inside. “Was it the spanking? Cause if I knew that was all it took, I’da pulled you over my knee long time ago.” He twisted his finger and pushed another one inside. His double trembled. “And look at this. Already loosened up for me. Did you have plans tonight, other me?”

He thrust both fingers inside, too fast and sudden to be pleasurable, but he knew his other self well. Even as he tried to keep quiet, tried to muffle his moans into the pillow, he could feel the truth in the way his legs trembled, the way his untouched cock stood at painful attention against his stomach. His skin had flushed across the back of his neck, down his freckled shoulders. Jack leaned over him and mouthed at the skin there, using his teeth to add to his collection of bruises.

“Here’s what’s gonna happen,” Jack said as he nibbled at the juncture of his neck and shoulder. “I’m gonna fuck you ‘til I’m satisfied, and you can either come from that or you can stay frustrated all night. How’s that sound?”

His double turned his head, fixing Jack with a weak one-eyed glare. Jack’s breath caught. His face flushed red as his ass, his undamaged blue eye shiny, lips bite-stained and slick. For a very brief moment, Jack regretted picking this position. He wanted to take those lips, he wanted to watch that face while he fucked him raw. He pushed a third finger inside.

His double cursed and buried his face again. Jack growled and tugged his hair, pulling him up.

“Oh, and another thing: no more of this eating pillow crap. When you scream my name, I want to hear it.”

He fumbled with his jeans, shoving them down his hips. He lined himself up and impaled him without warning. His double shouted and bucked, but Jack held his hips and fucked inside until he bottomed out.

He breathed out. “There we go. Good little cock warmer, aren’t you?” He groaned as his double clenched around him. “Stop that.” He smacked his flank. “How do you expect me to move? Stay nice and loose for me, babe.”

God, it felt good to bury himself in that tight heat. Better still when he started moving. He could understand why Nisha loved pegging so much; he had an ass that begged for it. He gripped his double’s sides, his thumbs digging into the black and blue marks left on his back, fingers slipping a little on the fine sheen of sweat. He set a brutal, burning pace, completely disinterested in his double’s attempts to keep up.

“I heard them talking at the club,” Jack said, just a little breathless. “They were saying you’d been there for a while. Fightin’ all comers. You feelin’ frustrated, pumpkin?”

His double tried to hide his face. Jack reached over and yanked him upright by a handful of hair.

“God, you suck at listening. I am _talking_ to you.” He jerked his hips hard, an off-rhythm thrust that made his double moan.

Jack felt feverish, like something inside him had caught fire. His whole body ached because he was going too hard, too fast, even for himself. He could only imagine how his double felt. He closed his eyes and imagined it now.

“Or maybe I’ve got it wrong,” Jack said. He slid his hand over his double’s chest. His other self's hips stuttered, his mouth falling open. “Maybe you weren’t frustrated. Maybe you were waitin’ for me. Is that it, kitten?” He pinched a nipple between two fingers. “You needed me?” He twisted.

“Yes! Fuck!”

There they were, those pretty tears, rolling down his reddened cheeks. How could a man be expected to behave himself when faced with something like that?

His double twisted, tugging at the bandages around his arms. “I wanted… I needed…” He panted, eyes glassy. He squeezed them shut. “Fuck, I hate you so… so much.”

Jack laughed and yanked his hair. “Sure ya do, kiddo.”

He pulled out, ignoring the groan this earned him, and stripped them both. He flipped his double over, put one of his legs over his shoulder, and pushed back inside.

“Sorry. That must’ve fucked up your momentum,” Jack said with a grin. His hair had fallen loose over his forehead. “Were you close before, kitten?”

His double grit his teeth, arched his back and what a pretty picture he made. All that lovely, scarred flesh on display. Jack ran his hands down his chest, dragging his nails. His double wrapped his other leg around Jack’s waist.

“You are so good to me,” Jack said. “Just fuckin’ perfect. You give me everything I want, when I want.” He leaned over his double, trailing kisses down his chest. “When I think it could’ve been anyone… Anyone else in Autohn’s office…” He took one abused nipple in his mouth and sunk his teeth into soft skin.

“Jack… Jack, please…”

“I won the fuckin’ lottery with you, kitten.” He crawled up the length of his double’s trembling body, until they were face to face. “I could get a whole army and not one… not a damn one would be like you.” He licked a stray tear.

“Jack, please… please… Say…” He broke off with a choked sound as another off-thrust hit him just right. “Say my… Say my name… Please, Jack…!”

Jack hesitated, breath catching. This went against his rules. Under any other circumstance, he’d make his double pay for this breach of contract. He considered using the name that was legally theirs, a reminder of just who he belonged to.

Then again, what the hell. The kid earned it.

He nibbled at the edge of his ear and whispered, “Tim.”

Tim moaned, his whole body tensing.

“Tim… Tim… you’re so good, aren’t you, Timmy? You want this so much, don’t you, Timmy?”

Tim threw his head back, exposing the long, tempting curve of his pretty throat. Jack mouthed at the skin. A hand gripped his shoulder, nails digging in. Jack glanced over, caught sight of twisted, white fabric dangling off Tim’s wrist.

He grabbed that arm and pinned it above Tim's head. He forced them both forward, nearly bending Tim in half and Tim, bless his eager little heart, arched his hips up to meet in time with Jack’s. Jack could feel he was getting close, both a relief and a disappointment.

Tim flexed against Jack’s hold, testing Jack’s strength. Jack obligingly held him down, because he couldn’t help but spoil his double. He gave into an earlier temptation and took Tim’s lower lip between his teeth.

He felt it when his double came, felt it shudder through him like an earthquake because of course it did, Jack didn’t do anything by halves. He felt Tim squirm under him, whimpering, his calf muscles twitching as Jack kept going, too hard and too fast, and too much for someone who was still trying to ride the aftershocks of their orgasm.

Jack wanted to drag it out. He wanted to overwhelm, push himself so deep inside that his double would feel him for days afterwards. But his blood pounded in his ears and the heat inside of him had gotten to be too much.

He bit Tim’s neck when he came, sinking teeth down until the skin broke, tasting the vibration of Tim’s moan on his tongue. He thrust into him, milking the last of his orgasm, until he was finished.

He pulled out and collapsed a moment later, hard enough to knock a soft breath from Tim’s lungs. They lay there for a while, Tim bleeding and breathless, flushed and thoroughly wrecked. Jack panting, sore and satisfied, finally satisfied.

“Good. Good work.” Jack patted Tim on his pectoral, enjoying the way it made his double hiss. He rolled off and sat up, stretching his back until he heard his spine crack. He rolled his shoulders, wincing a little at the burn. God, he might actually regret his enthusiasm tomorrow. He rubbed at his lower back and reached for the silver latches on his face.

“You’re spending the night,” he said as he pulled the white mask free.

“No kidding. I don’t think I could walk right now.” He didn’t sound too upset about it. Jack looked over his shoulder and found his double stretched out where he’d left him, head pillowed under the arm Jack had pinned earlier. If Jack felt sore, it couldn’t have been close to how Tim must’ve felt. He looked tenderized.

Jack finished his drink in one gulp, wincing at the burn at the back of his throat.

“Seriously, where’s mine?” Tim asked, scowling.

The glass settled with a clink of melting ice. Jack crawled over his unresisting double. He leaned down and kissed him, opened his mouth with an easy slide of his tongue, and took his time. Tim practically melted, little whore that he was. Jack’s hand found the bite mark he’d left earlier. He pressed his fingers down, producing a sweet moan.

“Don’t worry, pumpkin,” Jack said, once they’d broken apart. “You’ll get yours. I’m just getting started.”

**Author's Note:**

> i like to imagine rhys was in the audience learning something very important about himself.


End file.
